I am unwell

I have always wanted to be well. I recall a short-lived episode when I was 15 in which I urbex’ed an abandoned tuberculosis ward in Staten Island, only to discover a sign upon leaving declaring that the place was riddled with asbestos. Only enter if wearing a Hazmat suit. I remember going home and crying — diving down a rabbit hole of WikiHealth, Google Health and subreddits — figuring out if I had just brought upon myself an imminent death. I called doctor upon doctor upon doctor, and everyone said the same thing, but I didn’t believe them. I got rid of the clothes I wore and stopped talking to people. I would have panic attacks if I didn’t exercise, eat “right,” sleep eight hours or anything that could contribute to my longevity. This affliction, pun intended, has persisted for five years and has worsened upon coming to college, where my desire to be well has grown into my desire to be the best, in my appearance and my career. The body became another thing to optimize, to surveil, to perfect.

I recently checked myself into outpatient treatment through the Multidisciplinary Eating & Body Image Concerns program at the Engemann Student Health Center. It’s a strange paradox of seeking help for a disease that, somehow, feels like losing. My University-ordered dietitian recently called me out for getting upset with myself for falling asleep in class while simultaneously being okay with not eating enough to the point of fainting. I have realized in recent weeks that I have no idea what wellness is. I am trying. I am learning that I will never be perfect. I am learning that this is not a failure.